Custody & Visitation: Communication Break Down

It's always the same...

Maleficent continues to maintain radio silence.

Citing that Prince Charming's telephone conversations with her are "disruptive in my home and to my health." Dictating that their communications are to now take place via email only.

She refuses to answer or return phone calls. They don't work for Her, she says.

Perhaps it's too much Reality for her fragile Psyche to handle. She can't escape to her distorted view of reality when engaged in an actual conversation with her Daughter's custodian.

She's hiding behind her Role of The Victim. Escaping reality through Active Avoidance. And in so doing stripping Prince Charming of any and all Authority.

She's not answering his emails either.

Maleficent will send an email when she has something to say. When she wants extra time with Cinderella. When she feels the need to remind Prince Charming of an impending deadline to choose summer vacation weeks so she can then pick her vacation time.

ONLY when She has something to say.

Otherwise, Prince Charming's missives get lost in the ether. Questions, unanswered. Concerns, dismissed. Pleas to work things out, ignored.

He's having one-sided conversations.

It's as if He only exists in her World when and IF She allows it.

I'm tempted to yell. To pick up the phone and scream some sense into her. It's frustrating. Stupid. Childish. And mostly a waste of effort and energy.

My View

From my livingroom window.
My neighbor.
One his roof.
Painting.
He's fallen off once before.
Dropped a ladder and sliced open his hand another time.
You would think he'd be a bit more considerate and stop going up there.
I have enough to worry about with my own husband.

Along Came a Spider...

IN. MY. PANTS!

While I was WEARING them!

Holymotheroffuckityfuck.

I shit you not.

LOOK!

'Ello, beastie.

How did I find it? Well, it went something like this.

Get dressed. Decide to wear almost-too-tight stretch capri jeans because it's warm but not warm enough for shorts and the lack of full length mirrors in our case allow me to perpetuate the myth that I am truly still a size 8.

Come downstairs to do some blogging and Twittering (and we all know how long THAT can take... 5 minutes, right???).

Go back upstairs to tend to ignored children.

Put Gretel down for her nap.

Walk around aimlessly picking up toys, tidying up, blahblah whatever.

Feel something kinda scratchy, kinda itchy on my inner thigh.

Determine it feels almost like a loose end to one of those thin-plastic-tag-holder-on thingies.

Scratch at itchy thigh area and tug a little at almost-too-tight capris to try to adjust whatever-it-is that is causing my discomfort.

Feel THROUGH THE JEANS a small bump beneath the fabric.

Hmm...

(Take a moment to quickly go through my head the small handful of things that could possibly be substantial enough to be felt through denim.)

(Feel panic start to set in.)

Casually undo button and zipper and s-l-o-w-l-y peel almost-too-tight capris downward so the insides turn outward because I know that if this itchy/scratchy thing is what I think it is I am going to want IT as far away from ME as possible and will need easy access to the thing that I am hoping it's not in order to brush it away.

Then I see it. On the inside of my almost-too-tight capris.

BIG. BLACK. And it starts RUNNING.

DOWN.

BACK INTO MY PANTS.

Fuckityfuckohhellnoyoudon't!

Quick flick. Leap out of almost-too-tight capris in a single bound. Find still stunned spider on floor. Grab toddler cup toy thing to cover and trap it.

Inspect my leg and see that the spider paired with the almost-too-tight capri jeans left a mark.

A mark!

On my tender thigh flesh!

Run back and forth though my house in my skivvies searching for my digital camera b/c OMG this would make a great blog post!

And here it is...

And just in case you forgot what it was that made the indentation...

Why I Support Breastfeeding

[edited to add sappy photo & note.]

- CLEAVAGE!

- Shirts for me like "Nip/Suck" and "I make breastmilk. What's your Superpower?"

- Knowing that if someone yelled out "NICE RACK" they, for once, meant it.

- Shirts for Gretel like "I'm No Weaner" and "Mother Sucker."

- And if someone did yell out "NICE RACK" finally being able to respond with "Thank you, I grew them myself!"

- While I can no longer fill my nursing bras (yes it is mostly about the boobs for me wannamakesumthinofit?) I can STILL spill out of a padded push-up stuffed-with-tube-socks training regular bra.

(But this is only at night now and only if I have not nursed Her throughout the day and stored up enough of my stuff so I can resemble something like looks almost like a girl and less like a pre-pubescent boy with freakishly large nipples.)

But perhaps the number one reason is sharing the one thing that only She and I have shared from the start. Sitting in her room, skin-to-skin, her hands gently petting the skin of my stomach. Skin once stretched to its limit that is now so soft and pillowy that she takes every opportunity to lift my shirt just enough so she can steal a snuggle. For those few moments, we are both brought back to Day One. The day I became Her Mother. And the day she became My Daughter.

(*Since this post, Gretel is now weaned. It's a bittersweet milestone but one that we were both ready to happen. The tummy snuggles continue and I'm happy to oblige for I get as much of the comforting benefits from the skin-to-skin contact as she does.)

2 Firsts for Gretel

Her first lollipop.
Followed by her first urinary catheterization.
Boy is she strong!
"Yeah, thanks doc. Can we move this along please? I have a big toe IN MY EYE!"
Oops.
"Umm, doc? That is NOT something I particularly want to hear when you are sticking a tube into my daughter's vajayjay."
***
Tests came back negative. No UTI. No diabetes.
Cause of stinky urine and pirate breath. Unknown.